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  The copies of her latest script were under her mattress and she retrieved them, angered anew that she had to hide her work from her mother. Natalie didn’t like Andromeda to go out. Natalie didn’t like her daughter to write. Natalie didn’t like her daughter to smile, or talk, or breathe.

  Andromeda felt the anger and pain creep along her arms, just below the surface of her skin, until her fingers clenched together and she had to force herself to relax or she wouldn’t be able to hold her keys. She picked up the keys, which she kept hidden in the bathroom cabinet by the toilet cleaners, a place her mother would never, ever look. Her bike was parked down the block because her mother wanted her to sell it. What did they need a motorcycle for when they could have groceries delivered?

  Turning away from the television, Andromeda fluffed her chin-length curls with one hand and then pushed up her dark sunglasses. The fact that she wore her sunglasses, even to bed, drove her mother insane.

  Andromeda’s smile was hard. Sometimes, she dreamed her mother was abducted by aliens. It was a recurring theme in her work, an alien abduction where the abductee was an elderly woman taken from the Mississippi Gulf Coast. In her latest screenplay the twist was that when the aliens tried to bring the old woman back, they found the house abandoned and the caretaker daughter had assumed another name and moved away, leaving no forwarding address. The aliens were stuck with the mother. In a tip of the hat to great literature and international entertainment, Andromeda had titled her story The Ransom of Godzilla.

  Easing to the kitchen in her black sneakers, she pulled out the stove and unplugged it. If her mother woke up and discovered her gone, Natalie would put a pan of grease on the stove and try to burn the house down. Then she would claim that Andromeda had tried to burn her up in the house. Wily old Natalie had a million ways to punish her daughter for leaving her. It was all a game, a test of wills.

  When she finished with the stove, Andromeda lifted a small pocket camera and clicked off a shot of the empty burners and the stove canted in the center of the room.

  Document That’s what she’d learned. Document, document, document! She no longer argued with her mother; she simply handed over her photos and walked away.

  Andromeda checked her black military wristwatch with the night dial and the calculator embedded in the watch face. She punched in a small series of numbers and determined that if she rode an average of thirty-eight miles an hour to the restaurant, she would arrive there in thirteen point twelve minutes. It was time to leave. She would arrive exactly on time. Not late. Not early. Exactly on time.

  Timing was crucial. In life and in fiction. Tom Clancy understood timing. He could appreciate that while the commander of a submarine might explode a nuclear warhead at thirteen hundred on the nose, time meant something else to Betty Boop in Cleveland, Ohio, or Johnny Jones in Eastabutchie, Mississippi. That one second had a million repercussions, and what each person was doing at that exact second would forever change their future.

  It was a broad theme, to be sure, but one that Andromeda knew was the key to her own work. She might be able to put it aside when she wrote fantasies of her mother being abducted by aliens, but that was just a made-for-television movie. Her real work, her SF saga, dealt with time and the ability to control it. Mathematicians were already close. She kept up with the latest research, and she was one step ahead of the physicists and scientists who labored in the field–she had imagination.She could conceive of a place and future where time would become a salable commodity, like cocaine or diamonds. Precious, pleasurable, very expensive. Her work would be the groundbreaking movie that introduced the amoebae-brained public to the potential riches of time.

  Glancing at her watch again, she found that her fantasy had eaten up three precious minutes–she had to hustle if she was going to make it on time. This small delay meant she’d have to drive forty-one miles per hour. Still within the legal allowance, but it was cutting it close. She felt her belt where her keys hung from a leather strap and started for the doorway. Just as her hand touched the knob, she hesitated. On her silent rubber soles she slipped back into the living room where the television blared. A shelf beside the TV contained a selection of tapes, and she pulled one from the top.

  With a sly grin, she inserted it in the tape deck and stepped back. In a few moments the credits for Throw Mama From the Train would begin to role. Andromeda would be safely gone, and her mother might wake up to a subliminal message. It wasn’t freedom, but it was pleasurable.

  She slipped from the room and ran down the front steps. Her Harley Roadster was old, but it was perfect for scooting around the Gulf Coast. She felt the vibrations of the powerful machine beneath her.

  Sometimes, it was enough.

  “You’re not going to leave me like this?”

  Mona d’la Quirt lifted one high-booted foot to the bed and nudged the man who’d spoken in such a tone of disbelief edged with fear. It was the fear that excited her. It was almost a pity that she had to leave, but first things first. She nudged him again and there was the merry jingle of her silver spur.

  “The ropes aren’t tight enough to cut off your circulation.” She smiled. “Unless you struggle.” She removed the black silk scarf from around her waist and tossed it over the western saddle that rested on a specially constructed mount in her bedroom. That saddle had been the first thing she’d learned to grip tight with her thighs–the beginning of a long career of excitement and pleasure. Now she used it only for special occasions. Special men who had balance and dexterity. Men who knew how to ride as well as she did. The man’s voice brought her back to the moment.

  “Mona, fun’s fun, but I have to get back to the hospital. I go on call at midnight.”

  “It’s only six.” She leaned over and took his nipple between her teeth, applying just enough pressure to make him gasp. Tied the way he was, he was completely helpless. Totally at her mercy. And he hardly knew her. It always amazed her that men were so willing to put themselves in a powerless position with a woman they knew not at all. But of course, they never believed they were powerless. Until it was too late. “I’ll be back in plenty of time to finish our little game.”

  “Mona, really, I’d feel a lot better if you let me loose. I’ll wait here for you to come back.”

  Selecting a small whip from the quiver that hung from the big brass bed, Mona turned to the man. The room was illuminated by three dozen big candles, the light catching in the tangle of her brown hair, turning it into a pale nimbus. Her image was reflected in mirrors on the walls and ceiling. With the drapes hanging from the bed, it was a scene of decadence, of dark pleasures. The man who lay supine on the bed was darkly handsome, strong, virile, a perfect male specimen. A burgundy sheet was draped across his torso, and he was spread-eagled to the four sturdy posts of the bed, tied tightly with bonds of braided leather. The bedposts had been reinforced to her specifications by a very willing welder she’d had a few encounters with.

  Taking the tip of the whip, Mona touched the inside of his knee. With the lightest touch, she moved the whip up his thigh, inch by inch, creeping beneath the sheet with a feather-light touch. When she saw his response, she smiled. “I know you’ll wait on me, Dr. Marino. I know many things about you.” She leaned forward so that her bound breasts pressed close to his lips. “But the one thing I know for certain is that you will be here when I return. You have no choice.” She turned away, picked up her turtleneck shirt from the floor, pulled it over her head, and bent to unbuckle the spurs she wore on her boots. She wanted to wear them, but the silver rowels jangled too loudly when she walked across the brick floor at the restaurant. She felt the young doctor’s gaze on her as she worked the leather buckles. Turning, she held them over the bed.

  “Mona, I’d be a lot more comfortable with our relationship if you’d, uh, let me up. I’m beginning to feel a little anxious about this. What if I have to go to the bathroom?”

  “Just remember, doctor. If you foul my sheets, I’ll punish you severely w
hen I return.” She brought the whip down on his stomach. Not enough to hurt, just enough to sting.

  “Mona!” He yelped.

  “Don’t bother trying to call for help.” She picked up her purse. It was time for her writer’s meeting. It was something of a pity to leave the handsome young doctor, but he’d be more than eager to see her when she returned. And she would be more than ready, her creativity stimulated by the other members of the group. “The room is sound-proofed, so if screaming helps, go ahead. Remember, though, it won’t do any good, and it’ll just tire you. I’d prefer to find you rested and ready when I return.”

  “Mona,” he pleaded. “Don’t leave me tied like this.”

  “Oh, doctor, I love it when you beg. Save it for later. I’ll be back in three hours. Or maybe four. But you can’t see your watch, so what difference does it make. I have to run now, I can’t be late.”

  Chapter Four

  Mona rearranged the collar of her turtleneck as she saw Andromeda Ripley’s thick, black curls bouncing through the crowd. Andromeda was short, but her mass of hair, wired with an electric energy, gave her an extra four inches, just enough to be visible bobbing behind the waiter as he led her toward the secluded table in the back of The Pasta Palace. It was WOMB’s favorite meeting place. In fact, the only place they could meet. Every other restaurant along the coast had evicted them.

  Andromeda took her seat and dropped an armload of papers on the table and her helmet under her chair. “Margarita, frozen, no salt.” She spoke in a monotone and didn’t bother looking at the waiter. Her sharp eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, which she never removed, and bangs that exactly touched the rim of her somewhat masculine looking glasses. But her gaze lingered on Mona’s attire. It was at least eighty degrees outside and Mona was wearing another turtleneck, the same type of apparel she’d worn for the past three months. It was a tiny detail that intrigued Andromeda, and one that she could not question. The by-laws of WOMB forbade personal probing.

  Mona sipped her burgundy. “Dallas and Coco are running a little late. You know Dallas, she had to catch a sale.” Mona sipped her wine and gave the waiter a withering look as he hovered over her. “We’ll be ready to order when our friends arrive.”

  The waiter cleared his throat. “I, uh, the manager asked me to tell you that there is a time limit on the tables.” His face reddened. “I mean, there are other people waiting to be seated.” He clasped his hands together, then dropped them helplessly to his side. “It isn’t me. I enjoy waiting on you ladies, but there’s been complaints. You’re not to come back here.”

  Mona rolled her eyes. She’d been expecting this for months. Their weekly meetings often ran three or four hours, and few restaurants were willing to put up with five women who ate very little except free breadsticks and monopolized a table for that amount of time.

  “Well, I was tired of margaritas and bread sticks anyway,” Andromeda said to hide her disappointment.

  “Here’s Jazz.” Mona lifted a graceful arm and motioned. “Looking like a television executive from the sixties, as always.”

  Jazz Dixon made her way across the restaurant and dropped a big load of papers on the table. With red-tipped fingers, she brushed a wave of stiff blond hair out of her right eye. It flapped and then settled back into place. “That was a terrific scene, Andromeda, where the ground begins to quiver and then the plants pull up their roots and start to walk away. George Lucas should read that script. The special effects could be stupendous.”

  The waiter appeared at her side with her drink. Jazz lifted the highball glass, half-filled with amber liquid. She took a hefty swallow, the heat of the Jack Daniels making her eyes water. “God, the library is a dry and dusty place. Did you realize, though, that about thirty percent of the women in America were on tranquilizers or diet pills in the fifties? The fifties! No wonder all of those women wore cinched-in dresses and smiled while they cooked three meals a day. If I stayed wasted, I could be a good wife, too.”

  “Maybe even pleasant,” Andromeda added. “Dexedrine to diet, Valium to sleep. That way you don’t worry your darling hubby with your hunger pains or basic human needs. By the time he gets home, you’ve maniacally cleaned, and the Valium has kicked in. Yes, it would make the world a thinner, happier place.”

  Jazz flipped through a yellow notepad. “Seconal was the drug of choice. And Preludin was one of the more popular diet pills. Valium didn’t come into really common usage until the 1960's. Remember Quaaludes?”

  “Yeah.” Andromeda’s smile was dreamy, her eyes hidden by the glasses. “Quaaludes. I haven’t thought of those things in years.”

  Mona put her wine glass down gently, but with a definite movement. “Don’t you find that drugs, especially those with a sedative effect, dull the senses? I mean, why would you want to have sex if you don’t feel every nuance, every feather-touch of pleasure.”

  “And every slap of pain?” Jazz asked, holding the Jack Daniels so that the light set it ablaze with golden lights.

  Mona’s left eyebrow arched. “Yes, and every slap of pain.”

  “Here’s Dallas and Coco.” Andromeda waved at them. “You know, I’d give anything to see pictures of her when she was fat.”

  “Looking at her now, I can’t believe she weighed nearly three hundred pounds. I mean there isn’t even a stretch mark.” Jazz patted her hair. It was blond white and rose into a tower of teased and sprayed curls, with the one swoop hanging in her eye. “Has Coco ever said what that surgery cost her?”

  “Every penny she got from her divorce settlement. But she thinks it’s worth it.” Mona swirled the burgundy in her glass as she spoke. “One of my, uh, research assistants said they used the loose skin they took off her to save three burn victims in ICU.”

  Andromeda lifted her sunglasses to peer beneath them. “Is that Sonny Zanzara she’s talking to? Owner of Fiesta Casino?”

  Mona leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Coco said on the phone that he’d asked her to do some cooking classes. Sort of a promotional for the casino, emphasis on the restaurants.” She leaned closer. “He might come up with the money to help her get her cookbook published.”

  “If you want to be self-published.” Jazz finished her Jack.

  “That wouldn’t be my choice,” Mona said, “but at least it would be published. At the rate I’m going, I’ll be dead before anyone except this group reads a word I’ve written.”

  “Let’s change the subject, it’s too depressing.” Jazz waved, a big movement that finally got the waiter’s attention. “Gar-con, gar-con! More wine!” she yelled.

  “Sit down, Jazz,” Andromeda commanded. “We want to be able to finish this meeting before we’re put out on our ear.” She looked around the table. “What are we going to do?”

  Dallas Dior lugged two heavy shopping bags up to the table and dropped them on the floor. Taking a seat, she reached across the table and uncovered the breadsticks, still warm. She lifted one out of the basket and moved it daintily to her mouth, biting down with a sigh of pleasure. “Shopping is such hard work.”

  “Your husband is going to kill you.” Jazz tugged at her mother-of-pearl earring fashioned into the shape of a crab. “Not even a Nobel-prize-winning geneticist can make money as fast as you spend it. By the way, did they pay him when they put him on the cover of Newsweek? I always wondered if they paid anything.”

  Mona’s voice was polished steel. “Don’t mention Robert’s name here again. When we’re together, we’re writers. She’s Dallas Dior. For our purposes, Robert Beaudreaux doesn’t exist.”

  “For my purpose, he hardly exists,” Dallas said, trying to take the sting out of Mona’s reprimand. “The answer is no. He didn’t even think to ask.”

  Jazz nodded. “Sorry, Mona, you’re one hundred percent right. As writers we must not allow the mundane world to control us.”

  A moment of silence fell over the table as the waiter brought drinks for everyone. Mona lifted her glass. “To us, to creativity, to ma
king our dreams come true.”

  “Here, here.” They clinked glasses and drank.

  Mona cleared her throat. “I’m sorry to report that this is our last meeting here. We’ve been asked not to return.” She hushed the moans. “We need a place, a private place to meet. Perhaps someone’s home?” She paused three beats. “Unfortunately, my research prevents me from offering the use of my house.”

  Andromeda shook her head. “My mother.” Coco gulped a swallow of water. “My roommate would die!”

  Dallas shrugged. “Robert hates company.” All eyes swung to Jazz.

  “What about it?” Mona asked. “You’re newly divorced. No husband or roommate or pets to intrude.”

  Red flushed up from Jazz’s throat into her cheeks. “LoveHaven Trailer Park isn’t the atmosphere for literary pursuits.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get published. You’ll own the biggest condo on the coast, or one on all three coasts.” Dallas pointed her breadstick at Jazz. “The idea of a sequel to the sequel of Valley of the Dolls with the stoned female protagonist witnessing the murder of a federal judge and his wife is an excellent plot. The fact that only Brook’s sixteen-year-old black lover believes her is perfect. I mean it has social significance, and it portrays a black man in a positive role. Someone is going to snap it up if you just get over the writer’s block and write!”

  Jazz lowered her glass to the white table cloth now covered in breadstick crumbs. “Thanks, Dallas.”

  “You’ll do it,” Coco added. Her gaze was on Dallas’ breadstick stub, but her hands were on the table, curled like a sleeping infant’s.

  “That leaves one option.” Mona looked around the group. “We don’t have enough money to rent a place so we’ll have to find a new member, someone with a place where we can meet. Any disagreement?”